Journey of the Acolyte: An Escavian Chronicle, #0

By Mark Leon Collins

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.  Magellon knew he was in for a hard life, and that it would begin before he was ready.  In slavery to piracy and all that he endures, he is determined to maintain his integrity - whatever the cost. 

Meanwhile his best friend is in tow with a wizard desperately trying to track him down and unbeknown to them all another party seeks his life.  A friend in need is a friend indeed, but does Magellon actually need his friends?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Collins
• Release date: Oct 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781728880471

Book preview

PROLOGUE

AGAINST THE LIGHT LATE evening breeze, dangling proud upon an intricate gold chain, a moonstone sparkled before Magellon’s green eyes and he gasped in wonder.

Men have died for gems as this, you know, young lad, said the aged man, his bony wrist crooked as he hung the jewel slightly above Magellon’s eyes; his beard silvery, hiding many years of mixed experiences.  His eyes too were grey-silver, shining, twinkling in the moonlight.

Magellon thought the dark blue robes must be as old as his friend, What do you mean, Astocath? he asked.

"Men fought and died getting gems as this one for me," the man repeated.

Tell me!  The youth hoped for another exciting tale of adventure he would never tire of hearing, and he put his hand instinctively around the hilt of his dirk, anticipating the time he might one day have to use it in adventure.

"Would you not rather know about the man who lived to tell the tale?  Smiling kindly the man looked down upon Magellon’s disappointed face.  Look down your hill, lad. He turned the youth around by the shoulder. There, lad, he pointed a long bony finger before him. See the city?"

He could not miss it; numerous lanterns and torch lights of inns and taverns in the darkness of this young night clearly defined Yandor.

In amongst that sprawl that has swelled beyond her proud walls are poor folk.  They work and toil with no choice but as to slave.  They call for heavy drink to ease their yokes of burden, to their cries come the Judezzeks:  Men and women as you who give their lives to help and bring them relief, so needy – and whilst the Judezzeks denounce the extortionists, the priesthoods who manipulate the credulous and superstitious alike, is it any wonder their lives are no easier?  Hated by the wealthy and nobility, Judezzeks are the examples of their living faith and charity.  Are their righteous lives not more exciting than adventurous killers, young lad?

Magellon blinked away the tiredness in his eyes.  Yes, I suppose it is.  But I too am a Judezzek and am not sure I could do all that...  There did seem to be something of an attraction to save folk from the clutches of the unscrupulous, especially at the risk of personal jeopardy; a Judezzek had been sogged for the pyre and stake earlier this year, which the prospect for oneself was not quite so palatable.  There is an excitement to it, he supposed, especially for a genuine reason, yet to fight with a sword was more immediate, more visible if that made sense.  But to live by the sword, he must be willing to die by the sword.  A truth came to him, to live for the sword you would die for the sword, but to live for love a wondrous thing indeed to die for love. 

Currently he was glad he lived with his parents upon their own farm in comparative comfort and safety.  They had servants and farm hands, all of whom were well treated, and were permitted to do whatever much they chose for themselves unlike other employers who would assume some sort of control over their servants lives as if they were slaves.

Look, Astocath said and twisted Magellon around again to face him face to face.  He said some strange words. The gem shone brightly and sparkling lights flew from it and disappeared in the air.  Magellon laughed with pleasure, not only for the release from such deep subjects Astocath had brought his mind to, but also because some of the sparks touched his cheeks without burning him, yet they were real, he felt them tickle his face.

Astocath! How can it be?

The elderly mage shook his head with a smile.  Take it, lad, and say these five words...

Magellon gladly complied and repeated the monosyllables carefully.  The gem glistened and sparkled more than he had seen it do so before, illuminating the mage’s face as by lantern light rather than candlelight. 

My, it’s magic!  And he put his hands up to his face.

Astocath pulled Magellon’s hand away and told Magellon to squint his eyes.  Astocath spoke one other word.  The moonstone seemed almost to explode, creating a blinding light at which the youth gasped loudly. 

I made it for you – you have no talent for magic on your own.  Come, Magellon me boy, it’s time to pull up the mandrakes!  He turned and began to walk away whilst an excited Magellon stalled to place the chain around his neck and tuck it beneath his tunic. 

The night darkened further as clouds heaved across the starry sky and hid the full moon.  The breeze picked up over the hill and Magellon hurried after the wizard before he lost sight of him, although he knew exactly where the mandrakes grew.  Catching up with Astocath, he said, "I’m so sad I have no talent.  Sometimes I get so angry about it, like it’s my fault, you know?"

Ah! Talents of sorts you have, lad.  Gifts you will discover in yourself and you will be sure to make use of those you have.  No point in crying for the moon.  Astocath snorted.  Magellon wondered if the mage was developing a cold.

I am so glad I had to come out and find that sheep - and I found you as well, I thought you were never coming again!  You’ll always come here, won’t you?  Even if the ‘drakes don’t grow again?

Astocath chuckled.  "I’ve been coming here for most years’ equinox the past few decades!  If you had the gifting for magic I’d have happily taken you away those four years ago, dear boy!  He looked down to Magellon.  And I know you think of me as a wise man, but consider what I said just now.  I will not spend my life using magic to help the needy as you may, I cannot sacrifice myself to do so.  And neither would my position in my Circle of Medeas, permit me that is.  We are forbidden such pursuits.  So greater than me, for all power I can accredit myself with, is he who can share his life - one as yourself, for instance."

But my father will not even let me be squire to Sir Gathrick, and he a Baron at that would really be able to make something of me!  Magellon saw his years unfurl in his mind’s eye, of the people he would have met and befriended, of the places he would have been able to see: the hills, the forests, the ocean - which was so close, and the great cities upon her shores everywhere.  Yet with all this at hand, why should anyone want to risk his life? He pondered.  But to share it for the lives of others he believed he could do gladly with proper motivation.  Protecting them, fighting good fights and routing the wicked from the fields of glory.  I am to inherit the family demesne, learn and work to farm instead, not that labour is too much for me, of course servants we have - but our ownership is so insecure!  ...And not helped by refusing me to Sir Gathrick’s service.

Astocath sighed.  "Your Father’s decision is not all that unwise.  If I were to use my magic to make the crippled walk, people who have even less hope than you, for whom in some ways I yearn to better, I would never be left alone.  In addition, my magic would consume me to a husk.  Isn’t that more terrible?  My sort are as self-seeking as the rest of the world.  Quest for wisdom leaves us as fools.  Yet you can feed the kingdom."

A Judezzek, she healed some people by prayer earlier this year.  Magellon sighed deeply.  She was captured, sogged in the river, and burnt as a witch.  It seems no one much cares for others, and those that do care suffer for it.  Yet I would not mind suffering if something would show me the way!

The priests hate us more than your people - when they bother to make a distinction, anyway.  They like to keep the status quo, they have so much power, the High-Priests have as much sway as princes; and face to face with a prince, often times more so.

I believe in Sharlom, the Judezzeks’ God, said Magellon sincerely and confidentially.  And I know he changes the world face from arse.

So do I know that too.  They consider themselves to be a nation, one without land.

I hear! Magellon smiled, and then his face turned serious.  And I already know!  He paused, wondering why Astocath felt need to tell him this, and yet they had not really discussed beliefs much in the short times they had shared together.  "But He’s spoken to me..." he cautiously dared to say.

What did our God, Sharlom, say to you, Magellon, lad?  The question was tentative.

Things I can’t repeat.  There followed a still silence and Magellon was glad they were close to the marsh now at the bottom of the hill.  To cross the marsh was difficult, but if they were to do so and climb up another hill would bring them to the ocean if they desired to go as far.  He could feel the early winter wind and he tightened his cape for warmth.

Why not? Astocath asked after a while.

Because I can’t.  I just can’t say what he said.  It wouldn’t sound right.

Very well.  He’s never spoken to me, young lad. Astocath’s tone was a humble confession and gave no indication that he disbelieved the boy.

And yet you still believe in Him... Same thing for my parents.  But I haven’t told them anything of it, though.  Magellon felt his feet begin to slip and sink into the ground, he and Astocath had come upon the marsh, and soon they would be splashing in stale water.

Astocath confirmed, ...As your parents do, I believe.

Come home with me, after?

The mage nodded.  I ought to, I suppose.  Here we are, he added quickly, leaving Magellon to assume his friend would have preferred to feign distraction rather than acknowledge he had heard the invitation. 

Then the mage uttered words over them both.  Magellon’s nerves tingled throughout his body, a sensation he knew was the result of a spell to protect their mind and muscles, their very marrow, from the mandrakes’ curse that could invoke terminal madness.  He knew these plants were creatures of a sort, their whispers spiritual and used as oracles by some, spirits and wizards alike, for the information the plants gleaned from the wind.  Equally so, their conversations were enchantment against local communities of people, fuelling gossip and envy by colouring the dreams of folk as they slept.  The gathering of these was Astocath’s chore at full moon of most equinoxes, this particularly enchanted spot, his secret haunt.

Once they had pulled a half dozen of the mystical roots, their indignant screams wretched, they walked towards the youth’s home and the mage said casually,  The talisman will protect you with good fortune,  not to say it will bring you any great wealth and good dice should you gamble coin, but will keep you fair fortune in general.  But I’ll repeat the words to you of the light it can sparkle.

Thank you, Astocath. Thank you very much.  Magellon wished deep in his heart that this strange old man was his uncle, was his guardian, was one who could and would at least visit more often and share the coming winter evenings with his family, telling wonderful stories around the fireplace.  But let’s walk slowly... To stay out a bit longer? he urged fervently, the compulsive enchantment possible only from the enthusiasm of youth.

CHAPTER  I

MID MORNING SAW HIM into the city market and a subsequent search for the auctioneer to list Rolly.  A tap on the shoulder distracted sight of him, and Magellon turned around deliberately showing his annoyance at the imposition.

Sorry, son.  Good morning, greeted a wiry man with a smile, he was wrapped in a thick black cape.  Look.  It’s cold and I don’t want to be here longer than need be.  He paused as to discern the youth’s tolerance.

Yes? asked Magellon impatiently, and he didn’t feel particularly cold.

You selling this cow?  The man’s narrow eyes seemed to glitter and his teeth were beginning to decay.  If it were not for these clues it would have been difficult to guess his lowly station in life, Magellon decided.

Well, I’m looking for the auctioneer.  Where are you from?

Over a day’s walk.  I’s told Yandor had a good market, so I come to see.

And?

Not much different to one back home.

So you looking to buy Rolly here?

Rolly!  The man laughed.  You be no farmer, is you, eh?

Magellon looked him up and down affronted.  "I certainly is..."

Realising he had offended the lad, the man straightened his posture and withdrew his hand from Rolly’s flank.  Well son.  A good milking cow, eh?  What sort of figure be ye looking for?  Or ye determined for auction?

What’s the need for her?  Milk?

Me brother’s wedding gift.

Magellon pursed his lips, low on milk for a farmer as she be, she should just easily suit a young and small family.  Four shillings?  The first sum that came to mind.

Possible.  Auction and a desperate enough fellow.  Three?

And a half, Magellon held his voice steady, hoping for a better deal than deserved.  Then we can both go off to happy folks.  As men pushed past them, he hoped they would not be overheard.

The man looked Rolly in the eyes and a dribble of saliva crept from her mouth.  She likes you, smiled Magellon nervously.  He hoped this fellow would hurry.

So what you say, Rolly?  The man grinned at her, opened her wet mouth and peered at the teeth.   More saliva frothed at the mouth.  Very well, young man, I dare say that she be older than you is a fair bet.

How much says your bet?

Half silver.

Younger.  Magellon smarted.  This man knew little enough, Rolly was eight at most.  I’m twice her age - good as, anyway.

Three shillings and sixpence it is.  Here. The man gave over four shillings.  You got a tanner for change?

No, said Magellon flatly, now disappointed the man would likely have her for three shillings after all.  The stranger turned around to a passing farmer.  Got change of a whole silver? 

The man shook his head and with a nod of acknowledgement to Magellon, he moved quickly on.

Pah! exclaimed the buyer.  So how about three?

Four - unless you got a crown.  In Magellon’s mind he could accept three.

You ain’t gettin’ five shillings off me lad.  Not from me.

Four then?

Don’t like me much, do ye, lad?

I wouldn’t if you left me a pauper.

The man laughed and Magellon could not help but smile.  He handed the man the rope and put the four shillings in his purse. 

Good day to you, and may the wedlock be a happy one.  This fellow, he told himself, would have been discontent not spending out.  Father said he could keep what’s more, she couldn’t be a bad deal.

A grand name. ‘Til the next time.  The man raised his hand and led Rolly away from the market.

Magellon nodded at the man's back; his heart was racing and his mind was in a turmoil debating as to whether or not he had robbed the man.  He strode off to find some ribbons, and perhaps buttons, expensive... but he now hoped very much for Leiel; and fighting his way through the crowds of people and animals, feeling the moonstone against him he blessed the name of Astocath, and was confident he would not be pick-pocketed with his dirk at his side. 

If he failed to court Leiel he would give Father three and a half shillings, certainly so if Father felt Rolly worth the sum.

Seeing a tavern he stopped in for an ale and decided Father would insist upon accepting two shillings anyway since he was a man of his word and clearly encouraging his heir-apparent.  The tavern was busy with many groups of people, townsmen and farmers alike. Serving mostly dinners but also drinks, bustling wenches manoeuvred with adept skill past idle revellers and their wandering hands.  Magellon sat alone enjoying the heady brew at his table resisting the temptation to stay for another; the ales’ effect on him would be too much.  He wondered if some of the desire to dally was to delay buying ribbons for Leiel because then he would certainly be committed to asking after her token. 

It was no use dithering, he decided, and pushing away the empty tankard he politely edged past a crowd of drinkers and left.  Sensing his direction, he made his way down the busy, litter-strewn street towards the market place.  Thoughts of how much he would spend on the ribbons turned his attention to his purse and he felt it move.  Quickly turning around he looked eye to eye in the face of a horror struck lad, little older and slightly better build than himself - although Magellon was strong for his size.  The thief turned and fled, having taking advantage of his victim’s frozen surprise he was with Magellon’s purse. 

In a fit of anger, and heedless of any danger from other rogues possibly working in support, Magellon leapt after him shouting Thief! Stop, thief!  Having no effect he soon stopped yelling to save his breath; it was clear the townsfolk were only interested in moving out of the way and at that not into the villain’s path.  The ocean of people swept aside for the two youths; some individuals were aghast, but most were annoyed by the inconvenience they posed. 

Magellon hoped no one would spitefully trip him or even innocently confuse him for a thief himself.  But nimble footed he at least lost no ground to his fleeing purse.  As his heart pounded, his temples throbbed, his legs moving quicker than his quarry’s, and as his breath began to heave, Magellon ran as if a dragon was on his heels.  His anger began to take the place of all real thought, except to think that the youth had also been drinking at the tavern and must have noticed his coin. As Magellon ran, the mounting wrath that burnt in his chest, melting the imaginary metal in his lungs, soothed his straining body; and now he was gaining ground on the city rogue. He pushed people aside and was flagging, he no doubt had not the stamina of a country lad.

I will pulverise the maggot, perhaps have him hanged!

The thief turned up an alley with Magellon no more than a half dozen paces behind, and leaping over a pile of rubbish and dung the villain slipped and fell.  Ignoring the excrement, Magellon dived at the rogue and unbelieving of his skill he pinned the thief beneath him.  Wiping dung over the lad’s face, Magellon also hit him, punching him again and again with his fists as he crushed his knees into the thief’s chest.  Blood ran from the villain’s eyes, nose, and mouth; Magellon had broken the nose and suddenly he felt sickened.  He saw blood bubble and froth over the thief’s lips as he cried for Magellon to stop; this lad now more the victim than Magellon felt he had ever been. 

Fearful of causing murder he relented, he would soon be a wolf if he had no control over himself.  In truth he was afraid, not only of killing this boy, but of the thief having associates.  What’s your name? he demanded breaking his stream of fears.

Berath...

Liar!

No! Please, please! Take your purse and go!  the youth blubbered.

There’s a bargain!  Why not hang?  But Magellon knew he didn’t want to see someone of a similar age dangle from the gallows.  The mental image was appalling, gloating spectators and all.

No! Please!  Take everything! Leave me be!

Magellon felt he would retch, the brown dung over his victim’s face was like a mud pat, and stank with his blood.  His own clothes would wreak now, Magellon knew he had gone too far.  He realised how much stronger he really was than Berath, if that was his name, and although he liked the sense of that, it was not good to be degrading this fellow.  He had the lad’s life in his hands.  He had only to find a city guard if he was truly afraid, and he realised this fear had caused him to panic.

‘And to their call for strong drink to ease their burdens come the Judezzeks...’ Astocath’s words burnt between Magellon’s ears.

Very well, he hissed.  But pick on the wealthy in future. 

Berath groaned and lay still; Magellon took back only his purse, although there was another bulging one next to it.  Stooping down and wiping his hands on Berath’s soiled tunic, doubtful that another grab would be made for him, he said, You never know, you might remember me for the better one day...  Berath said nothing although his eyes told Magellon everything in his heart was anything but thankfulness.  I am sorry for what I have done to you.

Cautious of anyone coming by Magellon turned and leapt past the rubbish, he was back on the street again and aware of how much he must surely stink. His own tunic, soiled and ruffled, gave him the presence of an urchin.  With this humiliation and his nerves jangling, he breathed in deeply to overcome the shock of beating a fellow.  Bracing his nerves, he had to stop and lean against a shop wall for support.  He began to tremble and his body temperature dropped as if the day were deep winter. His mind flashed back to Berath’s pained and aggrieved face.  Things could easily have turned nasty and Magellon realised he could have found a dagger spilling his breakfast from his belly.  That might yet have happened had he not given quarter, but he was right to give quarter.  It had been bad enough seeing Berath’s agony when Magellon was pummelling him, now to think of his strangled face brought less joy to him. His guilt allayed as he realised it had not occurred to him to use his dirk against Berath.

He bit into his lip and drew blood, tasting it’s salt for some while as people bustled by oblivious to all but their own business.  Now he knew he had not the nerves of steel to be an effective knight.

Otherwise purchasing ribbons for Leiel, for which her kiss he could not guarantee, even finding himself shame-faced from the looks his grubby attire brought him, the spree was nonetheless something of a pleasure.  Wanting courtship and being allowed money of his own was a sure sign he was stepping out of boyhood.  He permitted himself a secret smile, and once he was outside the looming city walls of Yandor he skipped for a couple of hundred yards and then ran homeward as fast as he could for at least a mile through the mud of the road.  The bright spring day felt fresh; the budding year, the prepared fields, the full streams, the greening copses and the promise of brightening slopes of rolling hills already yielded a pleasurable expectation within him for a new life’s era.

CHAPTER  II

ALTHOUGH THE SUN SEEMED distant under the dominance of dark clouds, it was dry and breezy, warm enough to melt the last of the snow.  Magellon jogged along splashing through the mud; the lower half of his leggings and boots were thick with it and his feet were soaked.  He could see a cart ahead with a broken wheel and a man cursing over it.  He recognised the back of that balding head; he believed it would stand out anywhere. It would be Grulch, probably a nickname, but the only name he knew his neighbour by, cursing his squealing and fidgeting piglets in the back of his cart. 

Hallo! Grulch! Magellon called out.

Look boy!  He turned around squaring his narrow eyes that looked too small for his round head.  I ain’t of a mind to exchange curt’sies.  Help or be off with a curse behind ye!

The fields are smoother than this road, Grulch, Magellon laughed.  You got straight channels all the way home.

Enough of yer cheek.  Get yer hands ‘ere, or I’ll whack ‘em.

Magellon stood nearer to the farmer who was now bent over the wheel hub again, and he put his left hand near the man’s nose.  I don’t think so, he chuckled.

Eeech! Pooh!  What ye done?  Get that out me face!  Grulch pulled away in disgust.  Cor!  Look at ye!  Rollin’ with the pigs? You stink, mun!

A cut-purse got a mouth full of it, he smirked in return.  Then he blushed recalling the regret of how far he taken advantage of the thief.

Good lad.  He shook his head in interest then looked again at the wreck that naturally concerned him the most.  Don’t make these things as well as they ought.  Grulch cursed the pinion.

Magellon shook his head as he looked at the plight.  Looks too far bust.  New axle?

Grulch tutted and roared in his throat.  Looks that way, dunnit?  Got a bargain for them squealers, he nodded at his pigs.  Now they damn well cost me all the profit.  He cursed again with no less exasperation than the time before.  How we goin’ to get ‘em home?

Magellon looked at the piglets and shook his head.  You could stay here while I get you another cart?

Would ye lad?  Grulch’s eyes sparkled with gratitude.

You have another cart at your place?   

What de ye think mun?  O’course!  Aye. Ye can send Dalaerin back with it.

Magellon nodded and an uneasy feeling squeezed at his stomach.  With a cherubic smile he said, I’ll get you one, whatever!  Unless out of boredom your bully of a son pulverises me, he wished he could add.

Don’t forget me lad.  I heard yer head’s in the clouds these days.  But there’ll be a drink in it fer ye. 

Grulch made the best cider in the area, and Magellon knew the man meant to give him a keg.

Now get goin’!  See, ye forgotten already! his mouth grimaced which was the closest he ever came to grinning.

With an appreciative laugh, Magellon found himself running to Grulch’s farmstead for another cart.  Their homestead was nearer than his own was, and if no rig was to spare he’d go on home without fuss and use one of his father’s.  Ah! If father had allowed him to be a squire, what a noble steed he would ride across the lands with his rich clothes: A herald he should be!

Dalaerin was crossing the yard from a barn to the farmhouse when Magellon saw him.  A herald, eh?  - Here was he, intimidated by this country brute - and he dreamed to face kings with good and ill news, eh?  Grulch’s son was tall and lean, his arms were clearly strong.

Dalaerin! Magellon called nervously to his three-year senior, all too acutely aware of his soft, unbroken voice.  Your father needs a cart.

Stopping at the doorway, Dalaerin turned to face Magellon and snarled, Can’t he tell me then? 

Magellon sensed a deliberate effort to growl deeply from his chest no doubt with a design to humiliate him over his immaturity. He’s lost a wheel.

What’m I s’posed to do ‘bout it, then?

C’mon.  I’ll take it myself.

Sure you will.  Never see it again. I seen yer drivin’.  Drove ‘im the ditch did ye?

It’s your Father, Dalaerin! Magellon was aghast.

He knows I got a woman to see.

I’ll take it, Magellon urged.

You’ll leave ‘er alone!  It was clear he misinterpreted the object.  He raised a fist.  Asides, I seen yer eyes at ‘er.

Magellon’s heart turned to ice.  Leiel?

Dalaerin spat on the ground.  What’s it to you, you studded mule.  Yer a bit on the wrong side o’ boyhood. Ye don’t have te prove ye ain’t of a girlie yer sen, little faun.

Magellon bristled and clenching his fists weighed up Dalaerin:  slightly taller, slightly larger and probably substantially stronger.  Would a fight impress Leiel - when he had never seriously attempted to woo her?  You going to help your father or no?  He asked fiercely.

Dalaerin sneered, A cart’s in the barn.  You’d best sit yer backside down firm on bench or I’ll whip ye bare with me belt.  Dalaerin turned away and entered the house, leaving Magellon lost for words and his fury eating at his worn muscles.  He was too exhausted to hope for a chance to beat Dalaerin in a fight now, if ever he would stand a chance anyway.  He knew the bully had always wanted a real scrap, and out of all the abuse Dalaerin had ever given it was now he was providing the greatest reason to start a fight.  Magellon never knew the reason Dalaerin’s ill feeling toward him and he didn’t suppose he would ever find out.  His father said sometimes people had natural aversions toward some for no reason more than you had a freckle too many.

For now he decided to let prudence play the primary role and he let things be. Besides Dalaerin would only laugh about him to Leiel and boast he had to take Magellon’s jealousy in hand.  Hopefully a day would come when the rag would be snatched from beneath the bully’s feet.

Dalaerin came back out from the door.  See ye later you filthy ragamuffin.  Sick o’ the sight of ye already, I am.

Magellon realised he had stood for too long in reflection.  However, he was not going to fight.  He felt Grulch deserved better than to hear of a sorry tale of his son in a while, and things would be even worse if Dalaerin were to catch a whiff of his spoiled clothes.  But let the day come!  Leiel deserved better than this mindless brute.  He shrugged, went over to the barn and coupled a horse to a spare cart and as he drove the cart onto the highway, he was relieved Dalaerin had lost interest in him. 

Presently he saw a man walking ahead of him towards Yandor.  He was dressed in a grey flowing robe with a cowl pulled over his head. As Magellon’s cartwheels squealed closer, he wondered if the stranger were a wizard or Judezzek.  The traveller turned to face him revealing long greying hair that fell beneath his collar and his grey beard fell longer still.  He looked as if a razor had not been taken to his head or face in many years.  Torn between ignoring the fellow for fear lest this be a wizard, and otherwise wanting to be neighbourly, he was also inquisitive as to know who this figure might be.

Ahoy! Magellon called and slowed the cart-nag from a trot to a walk.  Want a ride? he offered; now he was closer to see, he wondered if this might well be a wise Judezzek.

The pilgrim raised his walking-staff.  Please? the man said with a deep and gravel-like voice.

Climb up.

Although his years were apparently long, the man climbed upon the seat with a dignified agility of a youth, leading Magellon to suspect this man to be a wizard after all.  He gulped as the man eased himself up and winced at the stink.  Before any embarrassing question was asked, Magellon said, Where are you off to?

Past Yandor.

To a wizard’s tower?

I’m a Judezzek, lad.

Great! cried Magellon.  His people were a rarity, their lives harsh - although different to the lot of a peasant’s.  Terrible about our sister last year - she performed a miracle and was burnt for it...  Magellon felt very sorry for her plight.

I know, I know... the Judezzek shook his head slowly.  And you offer me a lift?  Yet you thought me a wizard, and now you’re pleased with me?

I know a wizard, Magellon said slowly.  We meet ever so occasionally.  But do you not know you are welcome at our farm?  We are true believers.  We believe in Sharlom.

Is that last farm where ye live lad?

No I am running an errand for a neighbour there.  We are about five miles farther up.

Some light, eh? That’s good to hear, in these times I sense the days are darkening. Night is coming.  Everywhere we are hated, distrusted at best, our tribes wander; we are a people without land as you know - We spread goodwill to all others, but all the time in return in every way we are accused of dissension.  Then his voice brightened, But there is always the sun rise and as it shall follow the night, in time the hours shall brighten as things were in the dawning of days.  His tone was resigned, yet brave if not confident.

Magellon gulped.  Are you a prophet?

Ever wonder why your parents speak so well for country folk?  It was evident the man did not want to answer the question.

Not really, replied Magellon.

The Judezzek sat quietly as if he were contemplating the answer.  Never wonder why Sir Gathrick sees so much of your father?  And that your father should feign respect?

Magellon shrugged.  Friendly, I guess.

The Judezzek was quietly contemplative, or perhaps put off by the apparently churlish reply.  Magellon wondered about these two questions.  His parents had never made such talk an issue and in turn he had learnt to elude such topics regarding nobility.  He knew father didn’t much like Gathrick, this said. 

So if you’re not a prophet, why fathom these things? asked Magellon.

Baron Gathrick’s great-grandfather - and I’ll not speak of all, acquired your ancestor’s fief.

War?

Then you’d not chanced to have lived, p’raps.

Magellon thought through the family history.  My grandfather was a baron or such?

He was. Lived longer stripped of all his wealth than he otherwise would have.  Not that he died in poverty, mind.  He got quite much back, never his title though. Blessed by Sharlom, you know?  Wealthier as a farmer he was than when he’d been titled.

Had it not been for the faith?  Magellon looked at the strange old man and thought of Astocath.  This Judezzek appeared to become introspective, as if perhaps he was remembering his own youth.  Who are you?  Magellon asked quietly, almost whispering, taken by the occasion.

Lafont.  No matter.

So I should be a baron?

No, he paused.  You should not. It’s not in you.

Magellon swallowed and felt slighted.  Very well, by my birthright I should be a baron, at least.  ...If the Judezzek was going to play with words...

If it were your birthright you could be a baron, but not by your very nature.  Not by your... very soul.

You don’t make sense, sir.  Nevertheless, he knew for himself that nobles had an unhappy time balancing their popularity between love and hate with a demand for loyalty upmost on the agenda. 

Well, you’ll have to let me off here; argument will meet with us otherwise.

Don’t go, Magellon urged.  You’re a prophet, aren’t you?  Although he sensed he had not offended this man, there was something else on his mind.  I mean how do you know about me, yet not where I live?

The old man smiled and he looked at Magellon straight.  His face was barely discernible beneath his beard and the fringe of his hair across his brow.  Hair was not only creeping out from beneath his cowl but from his nose too.

What is a prophet?  I am a man, a son of our God, Sharlom.  At that the nag stopped, although Magellon had not reined him in. The Judezzek slipped deftly from the rig without a word and stood by the cart with the obvious intent to say no more than give his thanks and assurance of his good will.  Returning him an anxious smile, bewildered by what may have been behind the man’s intentions; Magellon flicked the reins and drove onward, regretting once more that he had been rather too harsh with the city rogue. He was relieved only with the thought that he had not called the guard to the cost of Berath’s life.

With these thoughts inspired by the Judezzek, whose cult always taught on the value of forgiveness, Magellon soon reached a pitifully bored looking Grulch sat upon his broken cart’s bench. 

Together they transferred the piglets to the good rig and roping the spare nag behind, Grulch drove them off.  There was a prolonged silence between them and Magellon asked, Is Dalaerin really courting Leiel?

Grulch tutted loudly and turned his narrow face to the youth.  I hope not. Is he? A mere weaver’s daughter indeed!

You hope for better for him?  Perhaps one of Sir Gathrick’s daughters?  Magellon’s heart was grieved by the belittlement of her station.  Leiel: a mere weaver’s daughter indeed!  As much had not occurred to him, it begged the question as to what would his father think too? And now if Dalearian found he had gossiped to his father...

Enough, said Grulch.  Have a mind fer yer own future.

Magellon nodded dumbly.  His own future! It had been snatched from him before his own birth. As a Baron, he could choose her, his heart fluttered for thought of her - Leiel showed her worth, her graceful flow, the girl was easily sufficient for any station in life - in his eyes, at least.

Suddenly he realised they had not passed the